


Please Don't Remember Me For My Crimes

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, And By That I Don't Mean The Movie, Don't Expect Sexy Pottery Making, Drinking, F/M, Fantastic, Haunted Places, Humor, I Mean It's Ghosts Alright?, Life And Death Angst, Major character death - Freeform, Melancholy, Mentions of past Beth x Phoebe, Mentions of past Beth x Turner, Metaphysics, Not A Happy Ending, POV Rio, Probably Some Gothic Vibes, Probably a little OOC, Sex, Some (Meta) Jokes, Tenses switch, crankiness, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26496151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: Rio didn't believe in ghosts. Until he actually met one.ORYes, it's a Ghost!AU.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 32
Kudos: 165





	Please Don't Remember Me For My Crimes

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I don't know what's gotten into me but when weird inspiration strikes you just gotta let her do her thing... Welcome to the depressed battlefield that is my mind!

One thing that most people ignore about Mick is that he believes in ghosts. Like, not in a spooky way. He ain't afraid his grandma's gonna come back and haunt him in payback for that time he broke the china from her wedding as a kid. But the dude _loves_ ghosts stories, and there isn't any rumor he hasn't heard of. Really, just ask him about any obscure tale of an Alabama farmer who saw something, and there's a good chance he's already read every Reddit thread about it — hell, he probably even created those — and has a theory of his own.

And don't get him started on ghosts hunting! He's spent a fucking insane amount of holidays in his life tracking apparitions, sleeping in haunted mansions with those infrared cameras and weird noisy detectors. He's in for the real stuff, no shit.

He even claims that he's a clairvoyant.

Now, when it comes to ghosts, Rio himself isn't what you would call a believer. No judgment, but he's seen enough people die to know that there's no coming back. He's not gonna throw shades at Mick though. People can have their dumb hobbies, it ain't his problem as long as it doesn't interfere with what he pays them for.

Plus Mick isn't _any_ employee. Employee of the fucking months, for sure, but also and foremost a childhood friend. And Rio can and will indulge a lot of BS when it comes to friends. Which is why once a year, he joins Mick on one of his hunting nights. _Gifts_ it to him, even. He lets Mick choose the location — cause Christ, he's not gonna dig _that_ far — and he pays the bill. Which often comes out surprisingly high.

(Mick does return the favor and goes with him every year to the Stationery Fair, where he always claims that he won't buy anything but inevitably leaves with a bunch of greeting cards displaying an indecent profusion of glitter for his four-year-old niece.)

The money's not the problem, though, Rio ain't cheap when it comes to heartfelt gifts. But he knows a lucrative business when he sees one, and let's just say that those haunted hotels managers know their fucking job. Which is a shame, if you ask for his opinion, but he ain't gonna ruin Mick's excitement with pedestrian considerations about lucrative scams. Hey, whatever works, et cetera. Especially when the boy gets all over his head about this, as he is right now. It would be like telling Marcus that Santa doesn't exist right in the middle of Christmas Eve.

Cause this year's hunt is special. Apparently tonight's the hundredth anniversary of some chick's death in this dilapidated hotel downtown he's driven by a couple of times and wondered why it hadn't been demolished yet, and the prognostics for a reappearance are high. Mick has booked the exact room — 204 if anybody was asking — for this particular night almost a fucking _year_ ago. Yeah, people get really nuts for that shit. One gotta get up early if they want to book the best seats for that shitshow.

Honestly Rio doesn't expect more than a crappy but expensive night of sleep, but Mick's brought all his odd machinery. Shit, is there even a market for that? Maybe he should consider flippin' his game, see if there are enough gullible believers of the unnatural to move an honorable amount of cash with that stuff. Could actually be worth the shot. Plus Mick would be _out of control_.

The two of them push the Great Hall door open, and Rio rolls his eyes, already bored, when the hotel manager, receptionist, whatever — an incidentally charming dude with great afro hair Rio would have killed to be able to grow when he was fifteen — greets them in a sinister outfit worthy of a cheap vampire-themed costume party.

"Welcome to the Blueberry Grand Hotel, theater of an atrocious murder a hundred years ago! My name is JT and I will guide you through the vaporous story of the ghost of Elizabeth Boland — or Bethie, as we call her."

JT punctuates his last remark with a self-important raise of his brow, as if he fucking invented the concept of nicknaming mythical creatures, and Rio hides his snort under a cough, unwilling to disappoint Mick who's already _jumping_. But seriously, _blueberry?_ Has Detroit become an alpine ski resort or some shit while he wasn't looking?

"February the 13th 1919," JT continues, imperturbable, with a voice that is clearly trying to sound spooky but misses the aim by far, the guy just has too many chill vibes to own one second of credibility in this role. "Crime queen Beth Boland and her associate, a dirty cop named Jim Turner, have a meeting in room 204 — a suite, I should say. She won't come out of it alive. For reasons that still remain unclear nowadays, Turner shot her and left her with three bullets in the chest, for her fate was to bleed to death!" their host dramatically declaims in a Shakespearian fashion while they cross the large hall.

Rio swears the guy's even rolled the _r'_ s a little. Mick lets out an overexcited squeak and Rio casts him a dubious glance. Like, the whole mystery murder party thing, he gets the appeal, he really does. But to the point of losing his shit like _this_? Nah.

"In the following decades," the presentation goes on as the trio starts climbing the majestic stairs, "many people have claimed hearing death rattles at night. Some happy few even caught glimpses of a woman's silhouette, attracting ghosts enthusiasts from all over the world. Even the famous ghost huntress from the 1960s, Phoebe Donnegan, spent the night here on the occasion of the murder's 50th anniversary, and declared that she'd had the most interesting chat with Bethie. Unfortunately, she entered St. Hill asylum shortly after, and as you may know never went out, which deprived us of a circumstantiated account of that night."

Mick, who's apparently aware of that woman's existence, nods appreciatively with a compassionate expression on his face, mutters something about a sad event for the community, and Rio rolls his eyes. Shit. Look, he's really trying here, but it's hard not to be judgmental when people around are acting like literal weirdos.

"What happened to this Turner guy?" he asks, eager to show goodwill. 

And also because this dirty cop criming around story is maybe the only part that vaguely caught his attention. Call that a professional bias or whatever.

"Ah, well I'm glad you asked!" JT exclaims. "It's another interesting story. See, Turner was found dead a few days later. Now, it's commonly admitted that Beth Boland's sister, Annie Marks, did it. However, in the absence of any conclusive evidence, she lived a peaceful life away from jail and died at an advanced age, surrounded by her son and grandchildren."

JT leads the way into a kitsch corridor on the second floor, and frankly the only spooky thing here is how awfully _old_ this whole building is. The reddish carpet doesn't seem to have seen daylight for literal ages, and the mural hangings are covered with large, dirty stains of humidity. The smell of old dust fills his throat, and fuck, he's been through a lot of ugly stuff with Mick over the years, but this right now? It effortlessly makes the top three.

The room itself — sorry, the _suite_ — is actually not as bad as he thought. Although the decoration and furniture are obviously outdated — and do _not_ get him started on the ugliness of the mural hangings — the room is by far cleaner than the rest of the hotel.

"Now, there's no absolute certitude that she'll show up tonight," JT warns, "but let me tell you that the odds at the bookmakers' are _stratospheric_ today!"

Wait, there are actual people who bet money on that shit?

"Here's a booklet with the detailed story if you will," JT adds, pointing at the coffee table, "and don't hesitate to call if you need anything. Enjoy your encounter with the afterlife!"

He winks before he exits the room and Rio drops his bag on the floor, unimpressed.

"The place is dope, huh?" Mick says to no-one in particular as he begins his exploration.

There's a large bedroom that Mick immediately annexes as his and starts covering with the content of the trunk he brought, full of electronic devices probably more paranormal than what they are supposed to track. Rio shrugs, takes no offense. It's Mick's night, after all. The lounge is furnished with some sort of couch that looks awfully impractical — isn't that what they call an ottoman? — and the cushions on it are a living promise that Rio will feel every bone in his back by tomorrow. He sighs. Sometimes he wishes Mick had a more sleep-friendly hobby. They are not twenty anymore. Christ, they've both reached that age when a bad night _is_ tough to recover from.

The bathroom is properly terrifying.

There's this kind of ancient tub with lion's paws shaped feet indecently taking center stage in the middle of the narrow space, and that's... Hell, some people have no fucking valid explanation for why they're terrified of clowns, right? Well, old tubs are his clowns. Leave him alone with that. He gives in to minimalistic ablutions cause he's got some hygiene standards, but honestly, it's freaking the shit out of him. 

And, Christ, this smell... If he's still breathing by tomorrow morning, it'll be a miracle. Right now, dust mites seem to be a much more likely enemy than some random lady who died here a hundred years ago.

Something woke him up, a metaphorical clap of thunder. Or... whatever.

He opened his eyes with a weird feeling of confused discomfort, similar to waking up in a different place than the beliefs induced by dreams and whatnot. Except that for what he could see in the dim light coming from the streets, he was still in this crappy hotel in the derelict neighborhood of the center of Detroit. The smell of dust seemed even stronger, as if he was breathing literal centuries through his nose.

He straightened from the couch, turned his head at the sudden sound of shattered glass, internally rolling his eyes already at whatever the source of disturbance would be. Slightly froze when he clocked it. A pale silhouette, feebly glowing in the distance, and fumbling in the minibar across the room. 

Just to be clear, it _wasn't_ a ghostly shadow. It didn't look like those movies he derisively snorted at, where people literally glowed in the dark like fucking light-bulbs. Nah, this was different. Fleshier. But with a subtle, crackling something around the edges. An aura, maybe, if the word alone didn't make him wanna barf in dismay.

The silhouette turned around and he pulled the string to light up the — obviously old, and probably concerning in terms of electric safety — floor lamp. He had no time for that shit. Either there was a stranger in his room, and that was a potential threat needing to be taken care of. Or it was just a trick he was more than eager to put to rest.

See, it wasn't his first time accompanying Mick. He'd seen some shit. Not any of them real, of course. Needless to say that he'd never come across anything supernatural on those trips. But actors, robotic puppets, holograms, clever mechanical tricks designed to enhance customer's experience, these he knew about.

It didn't prevent his jaw to drop at the sight, though. Oh, these guys were _really_ good. Cause that lady, she looked very real. Probably a little too real, even. 

She waited until he'd finished to trail his gaze across her body, taking in altogether the long legs wrapped in stockings and her hourglass silhouette. The three dark stains on her white vintage silky combination adorned with lace. The surprisingly realistic holes torn up in the fabric — usually the prop department got artsy with these, making sure that even the dumbest customer would get it. 

The pale, almost translucent skin, hardly concealed by a transparent negligee, and the strawberry blonde curls bouncing over her shoulders. The pearl necklace around her neck. Her blue — so blue — reckless eyes, currently staring at him with a challenging warmth, her plump lips slightly parted. A tear of blood smeared on her left cheek was bringing the final touch to the character.

Just the perfect flesh and blood embodiment of the sepia pictures JT had shown them earlier.

She waited for what felt like an eternity, and then she said with an amused smile, "Hi."

There was something weird with that voice. Sounding like a baby-doll's at first, but with a low, almost cavernous echo to it. Obviously some sort of sound effect. Hey, he had to admit that those guys delivered the show for the money. He'd paid for shittier setups.

He barked a laugh, unimpressed whatsoever. She raised a brow, perhaps annoyed that her appearance didn't elicit a more reverent kind of reaction.

"What's so funny?" she asked, pouty.

"All right so what's the script, mama?" he chuckled. "You gonna pretend to murder me? Spook me? Speak nonsense around me?"

She looked at him for a goddamn _minute_ , as if waiting for inspiration to strike, brain cells to meet, whatever.

Then she articulated slowly, as if speaking to a toddler, "No... _I'm_ the one who got murdered."

He laughed even more at the suggestion.

"Oh baby, we both know that you ain't less carnal than me!" he mocked.

She didn't seem to be the quickest brain in the room so he pushed the show even further. Licked his lips, in case she would have missed the clue. Cause... well, he didn't believe the bullshit she was trying to serve him, but he wouldn't have minded the company. Whoever casted this lady as the main character in this comedy knew their fucking job.

Her reaction was _not_ what he expected. Like, at all.

"Is that carnal enough to you?" she suddenly asked, eyebrows pinched in feigned confusion, before she plunged her hand _through_ the wall.

To the elbow.

He couldn't stop his brows to just _pop_ out, his facial muscles stretching to their physical limit. Cause, again, he'd seen stuff, but that level of realism? Kudos to the special effects department.

"Gotta say I've never seen a hologram this good," he complimented, "You nearly got me."

Honestly? It was kinda disappointing that she wasn't there with him for real. It limited the possibilities for fun. But it actually all made sense.

Except that before he knew it she was striding to the couch, visibly fuming with frustration, and grabbing his wrist in her hand. Her skin was tepid, to a normal level, but feeling weird against his, vibrating somehow, prickling like sparkling water — or low-voltage electricity.

"I haven't manifested for thirty years so I don't know what a hologram is. But I'm pretty sure that I'm not that," she stated calmly, giving his wrist one last squeeze before letting go.

Oh. Interesting. He'd been wrong to expect the worst from that night. Cause that was impressive new technology if he'd ever seen some. His disbelief must have shown because suddenly she frowned.

"Oh you still don't believe me, huh?" she started, blatantly grumpy. "Now how about —"

He gasped in the middle of her sentence. Cause without even the slightest interruption — hell, what about a fucking _warning?_ — she'd suddenly materialized on the opposite wall. _On_ it. As if it were a ground she could walk on, her body standing perfectly horizontal, gravity apparently optional for the night.

He swallowed, his mind racing to find a fathomable explanation.

"Logically you shouldn't be able to —"

"Well I'm a ghost, honey, don't start looking for logic," she cut him, playful.

Triumphant, almost.

And just... what was she — it? — thinking? It would take her more than a few tricks to convince him. Period.

"So what other cool shit can you do?" he asked, a smug grin adorning his face. "You grant wishes too?"

Hey, if she wanted to play, she'd get what she'd asked for. 

"Please," she retorted with a disdainful snort, "I'm a ghost, not a freaking genie!"

"My bad, you non-existent creatures all look the same to me," he sneered.

She sighed. Rolled her eyes in a theatrical fashion.

"You mortals are exhausting!" she cursed under her breath.

She shook her head, apparently unilaterally putting an end to the game without even announcing who'd won. Him, obviously. But he'd have appreciated a fucking acknowledgment. Instead she headed back to the minibar, walking slowly enough this time for him to be able to admire the swaying of her hips.

"All right, so what's your poison?" she asked from the other side of the room.

She cast him a glance over her shoulder, something he'd have qualified as intoxicatingly inviting if he didn't know better. Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, he performed a vague hand gesture, unwilling to pick. Whatever. The same she'd have. These hotel boozes all tasted like kerosene anyway.

"That's not an answer, Christopher!"

He jumped. Swallowed. Well, that was... a new development. He'd booked the room under Rio, and just how... A weird feeling crawled down his spine. Doubt, maybe. Or — something creepier. The beginning of a thought that maybe this whole masquerade was real.

"How d'you know my name?"

She turned back to face him, a bottle of bourbon with two glasses stuck under one arm, her other hand clutching the pearls necklace around her neck, something almost horrified in her expression.

"I... don't. It just rhymes, you know," she slowly clarified, the way she was looking at him seriously questioning his smartness. Because yeah, ghosts chanting nursery rhymes in the middle of the night didn't sound weird at all. "It's like, _'See you later, alligator'_. Wait, you guys don't say that anymore?"

He tutted her with a knowing grin as she was walking back to the couch. Considered letting out a dramatic evil laugh, but that would have been over the top, even for him.

"Nah darlin', I don't buy it," he challenged. "I bet you know a bunch of weird shit 'bout people."

She shook her head, dismissive. Offended, almost.

"Absolutely not!"

She handed him a glass and he caught her wrist, quick as a whip, surprised again with that crackling electricity surrounding her skin. Not that it wasn't pleasant, on second thought. Exciting, even. But still weird. He made a quick job at concealing the ripples of his initial shock, though.

"So how come that I can touch you while you go through walls like it's melted butter, huh?" he drawled, squeezing her flesh maybe a bit harder than he intended, experiencing the consistency of the material. Perhaps he was expecting it to eventually snap, his fist closing on nothingness, but it didn't happen.

She took a deep breath. Or maybe just pretended to, cause since when did ghosts need to _breathe_?

"Again, I don't abide by normal rules of physics. I'm dead, so this is just an incarnation designed for your perception. I could project myself into a 7-dimensional shape but in my experience that's the moment when mortal's brains start to scramble," she added, almost regretful. Then, muttering to herself, "Poor Phoebe wasn't ready for this."

He squinted, hit by the familiar consonance of the name. Wasn't it that chick the receptionist had mentioned? The one who went to the asylum?

"Would you please let go of my wrist now?" she softly asked, yanking him out of his contemplation.

Shit. He grabbed the glass instead, making sure that he brushed her fingers doing so. There was something addictive in touching her. _It_. Whatever.

She let herself crash down by his side, their knees almost bumping, and took a sip of her own glass. She instantly spat her mouthful out with a disgusted face. Which, for all he knew, might be a ghost-culture interpretation of the act of drinking.

"God, this crap is _terrible!_ " she complained. 

Okay, probably not a common behavior, then. Yeah, well what did she expect? Maybe she wasn't lying after all. Only a dumbass — or someone who hadn't been around for _a while_ — would have bet that there was any chance for this to be good shit. 

"I wouldn't have tolerated that, back in my days," she added, excessively upright, with a severe frown on her face.

"Watchu mean?"

"Oh they didn't tell you downstairs? God, they really don't know how to do their job anymore!" she grumbled with an eye roll. "Well, I used to smuggle spirits." — it took him all he had in him to not make _that_ joke — "When Michigan became a dry state, I was among the first to flip my game on this new market. My idea was to use medical supplies transportations. The police _never_ checked the crates bottoms. I created an empire. I had distribution systems going as far as Canada. I owned _Lucky's_ , the biggest clandestine bar in town..." 

She moved her hand with animation, almost spilling her drink everywhere. Man, she was literally _shining_ with genuine pride and excitement. 

"Wait, is _Lucky's_ still open?" she suddenly asked, all raised eyebrows and expecting eyes, hope leaking from her demeanor.

Which was frankly a bit preposterous. Hell, what did she think the answer would change for her — it?

"Nah..."

"Dang!"

The glass hit her lap, hard, and this time liquor splashed the hem of her combination. She poured herself a refill with a shrug and they both drank for a while, grimacing every now and then.

"So this is where you died?" he asked after a silence.

She cleared her throat. Blinked a few times.

"Right here," she eventually said with a small voice, nodding at the other side of the ottoman. "I remember that..."

"Did it hurt?"

Her hand instinctively came up to stroke the left side of her upper chest, distress briefly passing on her face.

"What do you think?"

He shivered. As if on sync with her mood, the temperature seemed to have cooled down way too fucking fast for any natural phenomenon. There was an awkward silence. The embarrassing post-blunder kind. Well, she couldn't blame him for not being familiar with ghosts' fucking etiquette.

She absently stared at him, secluded in a time he wasn't a part of. Her eyes looked bluer, perhaps watery. He was itching with the urge to touch her, but maybe this was just the booze talking. And... well, it had been a while since he hadn't been with someone.

He looked for something to say to lighten the mood. Wondered, on a scale from one to ten, how inappropriate a flirting attempt would sound like in this particular moment. Realized he didn't exactly give a shit.

"So this human shape... It's lifelike _everywhere_?" he playfully asked.

She seemed to wake up in a snap, her eyes fluttering, then focusing on him. A greedy flame of renewed interest sparkled in her gaze.

"Hah!" she shouted in a croaking laughter.

And just... What a fucking lunatic, seriously. Nobody could decently switch to the melancholic contemplation of her own death to this towering level of... of _psychotic_.

"What?"

She giggled, "Oh honey, that's what they _all_ ask, eventually."

She looked pleased with herself, as if she'd won some sort of internal bet or some shit. She finished her drink and without even the slightest fucking warning, she threw the empty glass behind her shoulder for it to shatter on the floor behind them. He raised a surprised brow — clearly she'd never had to clean a floor covered in glass shards before — but she didn't seem to even mind.

"That's not an answer, Elizabeth," he pointed out.

He... well, he'd only meant to echo her own, taunting remark from earlier. And maybe, _maybe_ , he was curious about the answer. And surely didn't mind the bantering flirt.

But he most certainly didn't expect her — it — to... _escalate_ him. Literally. She sat on his lap, her knees on both sides of his waist, her hands at his shoulders. The first thing that crossed his mind was that she smelled like flowers. And... another fragrance he couldn't quite place, more earthy.

"Want to find out?" she offered, subtle as a brick, a borderline insane light dancing in her eyes.

He didn't want to indulge some loon ghost fantasy. He. Didn't. But fuck, the silky lace of that combination was so _soft_ under his fingertips. He couldn't help touching it, his palms reveling in her warmth underneath the thin fabric. He'd crowded her, automatically, as she'd climbed on him, perhaps unconsciously preventing a balance incident that couldn't happen to her. He managed to maintain his hands at her waist though. Kept it under control and in his pants.

"You tryna fuck everyone you appear to?"

"Pretty much," she said with a cocky smile. Before she added, lower, conspirative almost, "Poor Phoebe was definitely ready for this..." 

So just to be clear, Rio wasn't _jealous_ of a ghost he'd met a couple of hours earlier. He wasn't gonna slut-shame her — it! — either. That would have been fucking ridiculous. But her answer didn't please him, for some quite unclear reason. He scowled at her and she sneered in response.

"What, you think you're special?" she mocked. Then, clocking his disapproving pout, "Hey, I'm _lonely!_ "

A little, desperate shriek. Just for an instant a shadow of anguish passed in her eyes, showing — perhaps — her true colors, but she promptly made it disappear.

"Don't you have, like, fellow ghosts to prank with?" he asked.

Anything to keep his mind away from the dangerously inviting proximity of her warm body, her electrifying skin, her...

"They're lame," she protested with a disgusted, quite haughty wince. "They're all about haunting people, and revealing secrets, and asking for justice, blah blah blah... It's _depressing!_ "

While she talked, her hands were tracing an intoxicating pattern on his upper chest, her face leaning in so close at times that he could feel her breath on his lips — again, wasn't breathing optional for her? — and had a plunging view over the valley of her breasts, her cleavage growingly attractive despite the blatancy of... of the reminders.

He gently squeezed her waist, tried to ignore the appeal.

"What are you here for, then? What's holdin' you back?" he followed on, eager to put as much distance between the two of them and dangerous topics as possible.

He stretched out an arm to grab his glass. Maybe if he occupied his mouth with something else he wouldn't —

"My money."

So the drink was definitely a bad idea. He choked on the cheap bourbon and spent fucking minutes coughing and grimacing under the burning in his throat, the most humiliating part probably being the moment when she started patting his back like a toddler's.

Which left her impossibly closer, her breasts almost in his nose. He exhaled, saw goosebumps erupt on her skin, and his fingers twitched in her hips. At least his reaction had been eloquent enough for her to pick up the clue that she'd have to elaborate on that last reveal.

"Jim was my business partner. He killed me to get full control over my smuggling kingdom. Basically, in this lane, if you want to become king you have to kill the queen, that's —"

She softly gasped.

"Medieval," he hummed against her collarbone, his lips brushing the warm skin.

He'd given up at resisting her strange appeal.

"Although I do think that he had other motives," she started again, her voice somehow less steady. "Jim and I were also... having an affair. I mean, I was separated from my husband, but technically, that's — Ah!" she briefly jumped and clutched his shoulders when he playfully sucked her earlobe. "Jim knew that I wanted to end it, and I'm pretty sure that his choice of murdering me the night before Valentine's Day wasn't innocent. He loved twisted irony," she added with an affectionate chuckle.

"Yeah?" Rio provided, mouthing at her upper breast.

His hands initiated a circling motion, moving up and down her sides, and she shuddered under his touch before she pulled back a little, putting just enough distance between them to break the contact between his mouth and her skin.

"He... picked the vault key on my dying body," she murmured, her gaze absently turned towards presumably agonizing memories. "But he never got to be the king. My sister killed him three days later. She didn't..." — her voice broke a little, if that made sense for an entity presumably devoid of vocal cords — "I mean she _needed_ me. She never completely recovered, and... I think she didn't take the money on purpose. To keep me around."

"Your sister knew about that ghost shit too?" he couldn't help but ask, cause the way she kept talking about it like it was obvious, common knowledge was fucking insane.

She considered him with great annoyance.

" _After_ I explained it to her," she professed, staring at him like he was talking nonsense. "And then I thought that my nephew would set me free once she was gone, but he never _saw_ me. That's the actual problem! I've been trapped in this for decades and nobody will help me... I nourished great hopes with poor Phoebe but she couldn't handle the... the aftermath."

"Wait," he raised one hand, interrupting her building rant. "To set you free, someone just has to take your money?"

She nodded, eagerly, with something triumphant in her eyes like she was glad he'd finally gotten it or some shit. Which was — utterly annoying. But... fuck. Since he had a free hand now, it would have been stupid not to cup her face with it. He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, and she leaned into his palm, let him bring her back to their closeness of a minute earlier.

"Then how come you couldn't find anyone so far?" he muttered almost against her lips, their mouths playfully brushing without fully engaging with one another yet.

She cradled his face with her both hands, her fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps at the back of his neck and sending little electric shocks along his spine.

"Because they never listen to me!" she breathed in his ear with audible frustration as his lips disappeared in her neck. "Either they get too scared, or too excited, or they just refuse to see it. Your friend in the other room... his brain literally put him to sleep so he wouldn't acknowledge me."

"But he's crazy 'bout ghosts..." Rio drawled, dropping open-mouthed kisses on every inch of exposed skin.

She pulled away a little and slipped a finger under his chin, urged him to look at her.

"Well, maybe his subconscious is not," she softly said, her thumb caressing his bottom lip. "I mean, you... you saw me for what I am. But it's not that common."

His tongue darted out to poke at her finger.

"Nuh?"

She bit her lips in response to his ministrations and he caught the tip of her thumb between his teeth, sucked it gently. She cleared her throat, and he'd have sworn she was just concealing a moan.

"No... Besides, inflation is a crazy bitch. People now are too lazy to go on a treasure hunt for 'only a few grand'!" she quoted-unquoted with a weird voice, probably badly impersonating someone.

His jaw dropped, setting her thumb free.

"Jeez, mama, only a few grand? Fuck, that sucks!" he admitted.

That was literal pocket money for him. And judging from the place pricing, the people who could afford to spend a night in this hellhole probably shared this kind of standards.

She displayed a sad smile.

"Yeah, it sucks," she whispered.

They stared at each other for a beat, one of her hands still palming his jaw, the other clutching his shoulder, his own hands living a life of their own, roaming her silky lingerie.

"So tell me all 'bout that money of yours," he eventually drawled with a smirk, pulling her closer.

Their mouths crashed together, avid, and hot, and needy, and she let out an enthusiastic moan as he palmed her breast. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling, and he couldn't hold his gasp when she pushed her tongue in his mouth, her lips cruelly soft and skilled against his. She tasted like this horrid bourbon, along with something else, more evanescent, that he couldn't name.

But he had no time for fucking charades as his brain was currently short-circuited, and right now, pulling that combination up her thighs was his top priority. She shrugged her déshabillé off her shoulders and broke the kiss to decidedly attack the first buttons on his shirt.

He looked down on her exposed thighs and couldn't help but notice the translucent whiteness of the alabaster there. Briefly wondered about the implications, tried to remember what Mick had told him about ghosts and vampires parentage.

"Fuck, mama, your skin's so pale!" he groaned, building a trail of kisses along her jawline and down her neck, his lips brushing her pulse point.

Which, for the record, _was_ beating. What a fucking nonsense.

"Well, I bled to death, so..." she trailed off in-between soft gasps, and he fiercely ignored the little voice in his head that had been questioning from the start the wisdom of sleeping with dead people.

Cause... Too late for that. He was already bones deep in this — not to mention the massive boner he'd been growing over the past few minutes, _pun fucking intended_ — and there was this part of him that, as soon as she'd laid an electrifying hand on him, had wondered how this prickling skin would feel around his dick.

Lifting her felt weird. His every sensorial perception told him that she weighed expectedly on his lap for a woman her height and size. But the muscles in his arms didn't report any supernumerary effort in the act. He could have been lifting an empty cardboard box for what he minded, and if she wrapped her legs around his waist when he pinned her against the wall, it was purely for decorum: she was at no risk of falling. 

"I should warn you," she said, suddenly serious, tapping a severe finger against his lips as he was reaching again for her mouth. Then, barely flirtatious, "This is going to blow your mind."

Fucking ego of the century.

"You always braggin' this much?" he retorted with a smug grin, his fingers already teasing her cunt, fingertips ghosting her entrance and smearing wetness around — cause yeah, she was womanly designed everyfuckingwhere.

She gasped, biting her lips when he rubbed her clit, and he shut her up with a kiss before she could retort with something even more appalling.

She'd probably oversold the whole thing a lil bit, though. Obviously it was _good_. And sure, it was a goddamn _experience_ , to fuck someone literally _into_ the wall — weirdly enough, she seemed to lose some substance as things grew more intense. As if she didn't have enough energy or focus left to remain tangible.

But — pretending he'd lose his fucking mind like this sixties chick over it was a bit of a far stretch. One of his best times though? Probably. Weirdest shot at any game of 'never have I ever'? Literally. But his entry ticket to the mentals'? Nah. Not a chance.

Fucking a ghost wasn't that much as a mind-blowing experience rather than a puzzling one. More than once he caught himself wondering about the metaphysics — whether she actually felt something, where would his come go. Remembered that he was supposed to get lost in the moment instead. In her softness. Her warmth. In the way she dropped those little moans against his ear, sounding almost surprised with every thrust — was there anything surprising left after the third one, though, the mechanics were after all pretty basic.

He tried to escape from his logical brain in the fullness of her body, bringing the strap of her combination down her shoulder to exhume her right breast — he wasn't exactly ready for the other side in all due honesty. He wrapped his lips around her hard nipple and she writhed beneath him when he gently bit the tender mount.

Honestly it wasn't that different from fucking a normal human being. Except that this was a bit more... something. Every sensation taken up a notch, until he realized — perhaps too late — the monstrous tidal wave building inside of him, burning around his pelvis while he drove inside her at an increasing pace.

She... might not have been — that wrong. After all. She moaned louder at some point, dug her nails in his back, and he was lacking of knowledge about how ghosts usually came but something was definitely happening.

Without the slightest warning she caught his lips between hers, tongued his mouth, and it all... Fucking... Crashed... Over... Him.

—

He —

Okay he saw it now. He didn't know for how many minutes he'd blacked out, his mouth apparently buried in her neck while she gently stroked the back of his head, waiting for his return.

He swallowed back his shakiness, gave her a cocky smirk that blatantly didn't fool her, judging from the light of unconcealed triumph and pride dancing in her blue irises. Something probably having more to do with her being right than her actual performance in the sack.

He brought her back to the ground.

There definitely had been a second-round on the ottoman. And then — maybe he'd dozed off for a few minutes, but suddenly he opened his eyes on her face, hovering just above his, her eyes widened in something that looked like fear.

Or rather inconvenience, on second thought.

"It's um... well, I can't stay after dawn," she said, an embarrassed wince pursing her lips. "And I'm going to have to put you to sleep first."

Somehow the idea that the night was already over was ludicrous. Laughable. And even more was the prospect of falling asleep like a fucking toddler before her return back to whatever in-between world she was living in.

"I wanna watch you go," he replied with peak stubbornness.

She shook her head, a self-conscious smile on her lips, the shadow of a blush spreading over her cheeks. 

"No, I... it's _messy_. I basically decompose until I turn back to dust, and... I don't want you to see me like that. I want you to remember _this_ , okay?"

Her hand gestured towards her body, and he slowly nodded.

There was a beat that neither of them felt the need to fill with futile words. They both knew this was the end.

"Will you... will you release me, after?" she timidly asked with pleading eyes.

He... wondered at first what she was talking about. Remembered. Frowned at the thought.

"Why me?"

She looked away, distraught. Bit her lip with hesitancy.

"Because you're my only option," she eventually confessed.

There she was. He sighed. Rocked his jaw. All things considered, it was kinda hard not to feel fucking _used_ here, but — he sucked in his bottom lip, conflicted.

"What if I don't want to?" he replied, challenging almost.

She straightened up with discouragement written all over her face. She looked so _fragile_ all of a sudden.

"But I'm so _tired_ ," she plaintively whined. "I saw my own children die of old age, for fuck's sake! It's not... I mean I don't belong to your time. I just want to go to sleep, is that too much to ask?"

He came up to sit by her side, rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb in an attempt to cheer her up.

"C'mon, there must be at least some perks of being a ghost!"

She considered the suggestion.

"Well... your back never hurts anymore," she eventually admitted.

Fucking relatable point of the century. But — this would never be enough of a compensation for the prison of eternity she was trapped in. He nodded, slowly. Pressed his forehead against hers.

"Okay," he whispered.

"Thank you," she breathed.

He pulled away to look at her face one more time.

"Will I get to see you again?"

He hadn't meant to sound so _desperate_. But fuck. Even if she'd only lured him into this false sentiment of intimacy to better bend him to her design, things couldn't just end like that.

She shook her head.

"I don't think so. Or maybe... in a while," she said with a dreamy voice.

And that was when it hit him for real, impactful as the three bullets buried somewhere in her chest. That these were the last instants he'd ever get to spend with her in this life. That he was about to lose forever something he didn't even know he craved.

His hand reached for her face, gently pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering on her temple, drinking in one more time the strange feeling of her ethereal skin.

"Good night, then, Elizabeth," he whispered.

She closed her eyes and a tear spilled out, rolled down her cheek, and fell on her chest.

It's the last thing he remembers. 

When he wakes up, a pale morning sunlight leaks through the windows inside the room, and he can hear Mick's humming in the bathroom, along with splashing noises. It takes him a while to realize that there's no shattered glass on the floor, nor any trace of the night's bizarre events. He runs a palm across his face, smiles at his own stupidity. It was all a fucking dream. One he somehow wishes was true, but... just a dream.

The bedroom door pops open in his back as he's rearranging the cushions on the ottoman, and Mick steps in the living room, still whistling some trendy pop song that Rio's probably heard countless times on the radio but would be incapable of naming. Let alone singing along.

"Guess she didn't come last night, huh?" Mick states.

Which is actually his way of greeting people. Mick's always been awful at small talk, he just... doesn't get it. So usually he directly jumps to whatever occupies his mind, skips formal manners and whatnot.

Rio's shoulders tense but he hides it behind an exaggerated effort to lift his bag.

"Whatchu mean?" he asks, his voice varnished with indifference.

Mick shrugs while he dismounts the tripod of one of his infrared cameras or... Hell. Whatever that thing does.

"Slept like a log," he grunts, "and the detectors didn't catch anything. It happens though. Just wasn't her night."

Rio hums noncommittally. He still can't decide how real last night was. He swears he can still smell her, her scent woven in the dusty smell of the place, but maybe it's just a persistent dream memory.

"Hey, what's that?"

Mick squeaks excitedly and Rio follows his gaze. Hanging to the room's doorknob, a pearl necklace is gently swinging in an invisible draught. _Hers_. He's spent enough time with his lips on it to just know. Something feels weird inside of him, as if a warm stream and a cold shower were meeting just in the middle of his chest and he swallows, his breathing short and shallow.

"Nothin'. It's mine," he articulates.

"Oh."

Mick raises a surprised eyebrow at him but doesn't say anything, and Rio hates himself for the disappointment in his friend's eyes. For one second the boy _really_ thought she'd showed up after all. Which.... she did. But he just can't tell him — don't fucking wanna tell him.

Wordlessly, he pockets the necklace, the pearls softly prickling against his fingertips, an echo of the night. That's the moment when the memories hit him and he presses his eyelids shut for an instant, cause the flashbacks are just... too much.

And he... well there's something he's gotta do.

It took him a while to figure it all out, though. Goddamn Elizabeth didn't specify who possessed that fucking key in the last place, so he's had to pull some _big_ strings to get access to the belongings of a man murdered a century ago. It's a chance that he's still got some good friends at the Bureau, although he can tell that Noah wasn't pleased with that particular task. The guy's usually more down for drugs shipments, but a favor's a favor.

Unfortunately, the dirty cop lead was a dead end. Then, tracking down the sister's relatives, well... It's not that it hasn't been easy, it's just that he _hates_ the librarian part of the work. Ain't his shit. But. Eventually he got in touch with one of Annie Marks's granddaughters who happily gave him three boxes of attic stuff, the kind he'd normally directly throw into a dumpster before setting it on fire, but this time he dutifully endured a full search.

Hell, he's not even sure of why he's been doing all this. He's still not a hundred percent convinced that this night happened, to begin with. And even if it did... Well he doesn't owe a fucking random ghost anything.

But — but there's something in the last look she gave him that still wakes him up at night. He dreams of her. Pretty often. Opens his eyes wishing she were there. She's literally haunting him, in every way, and maybe that's what has fueled him throughout this ludicrous search. Cause now he knows how it feels to be trapped in a reality that will never be yours, no matter how hard you try to escape.

So. Back to the key point. Eventually the attic boxes delivered a verdigris painted copper key, lost in meaningless jewelry — who the heck wears star-shaped hair clip anyway? Then came an absolutely devoid of thrill investigation for a matching keyhole. Which he eventually found in one of Detroit's oldest banks, bringing to light a few piles of dusty stacks of bills.

And then... well, she's never mentioned _that_ , but he's been meaning to say one last good-bye, now that she's presumably free for good. Finding the right cemetery was the easy part. It's all public information after all. But it has taken him several afternoons of squinting at old engraved stones to find the right one. Surprisingly enough, as much as the murder room is some sort of a place-to-be for ghosts-worshippers, her grave doesn't attract pilgrims.

Except him. The cemetery is nearly deserted in the late April afternoon, and he's probably the only nutty fool standing in front of a grave. Talking to it.

"Thought you may need these, wherever you go," he says, trying to be casual.

He kneels down to drop a stack of bills next to a plastic bouquet, the colors of which have aged and faded. The date on the ribbon says 1990, and shit. Her long-gone few family members are probably the last people who ever visited that tomb, and...

Loneliness is a feeling he can relate to.

He ain't gonna cry for her, though. C'mon, he's not _that_ cheesy. But he can't stop himself from pressing two fingers against his lips before bringing them down, against the cold marble stone. A chaste farewell.

"Rest in peace, sweetheart," he mutters, his throat annoyingly constricted.

He seems to hear a thanking murmur, figures he can smell her scent. But maybe it's just the wind, whispering through the apple trees, and carrying with it the perfume of blooming flowers.

He won't attend next year's ghost hunt.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title is from _For My Crimes_ by Marissa Nadler. 
> 
> Also this was my inspiration for Beth's early 1920s lingerie outfit, just picture it more... transparent?


End file.
